


like indecision's kevlar

by capebretons



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Team Canada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10541535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capebretons/pseuds/capebretons
Summary: “If you want me to go to bed, you should probably stop kissing me,” Mat says, just as he leans in to kiss Mitchell some more. Mitchell’s smiling into it, and there’s a little laugh that gets lost when Mat bites at Mitchell’s bottom lip.“You’re right,” Mitchell says, pulling back for good. “Go to bed.”“As we have already established, I am already in—”“Goodnight, Matty.”(Mat Barzal likes sharing beds. Well, one bed. With Mitchell Stephens.)





	

Mat wakes up with a hangover. This is not new.

It takes him a minute, to really figure out what the fuck is going on. It’s three-forty-two in the morning, according to his phone. His phone, two-percent away from death, had been shoved into his boxers. He doesn’t recall doing that. That’s not really a thing he’d do.

But he’s in his room? Which, okay. Maybe he got tired in the middle of — oh, there’s the party. It’s still going on, downstairs, if anything at all can be judged from the music and the talking and oh, yeah, there’s someone else in this bed.

“Hartsy,” Mat says, voice rough from disuse. He shoves at Carter, not hard enough to push him off Mat’s bed, but hard enough to wake him. “Get the fuck up.”

“No,” comes Carter’s response, soft and muddled by the pillow he’s shoved his face into. 

“Come on,” Mat says, shoving again, because really. Hartsy’s got his own bed. It’s up on the fourth floor, and Mat’s room is only on the second. Maybe Carter didn’t feel like stairs. “I’ll lose my shit if you throw up in my bed. Again.”

“One time,” Carter says, still muffled. “Two years ago.”

“It was so much puke, though,” Mat says, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Fine. I’m checking on you in an hour, though.”

“Such a good alternate,” Carter teases, and Mat knows he’s smirking.

“If you puke, I’m dumping your body in the river.”

“Which river?”

“Does that matter?”

“Some are cleaner than others.”

“I’m going to find the dirtiest river in southern Ontario, and in you will go.”

“Okay,” Carter says, chuckling, and then he’s snoring again. It’s a marvel, how the kid’s body works. 

Mat snorts, gets out of bed. He pads over to the door, stopping only for a second to check his hair in the broken mirror. It’s Bastian’s fault, because Bastian thought it was a swell fucking idea to play mini-sticks in Mat’s room while Mat was back in BC, and apparently Clouder’s a shitty roommate, because he just let that happen, and Bastian broke Mat’s mirror. Just like Bastian broke Mat’s hot plate, and Bastian lost Mat’s Warriors jersey, and Bastian ate Mat’s leftover takeout last week.

Mat really hates his housemates, sometimes. This is particularly prevalent as Mat’s making his way down the most rickety fucking stairs on campus, narrowly avoiding the hole in the second-to-last step that’s all thanks to Parayko, who’s giant fucking feet are responsible for every single hole in this house. Of which, there are many.

Honestly, this house is a pit. The paint’s peeling, there are puck-shaped indents in every wall, and there’s a weird leaking stain in the living room that’s been there since Mat was a freshman. He has seen no moves for renovation. He’s not sure any of the guys care that much. This has been the team house since the dawn of time, back when Crosby played, with Tavares and Price and Stamkos. Those were the good days, Mat’s been told. Back when their shitty U Sports team was anything to talk about. Those guys were good enough to get drafted, even. That kind of thing never happens anymore.

It’s been a long fucking time since Mat’s seen a NHL scout at any rink he’s played in.

“Matty B!” Someone’s calling out, and Mat’s already flinching, because that’s been a stupid nickname from day one, lovingly given to him by Strome One when he came back to visit Dylan.

“What,” Mat calls back, flat, walking away from whoever called his name. He needs a beer. Beer always fixes hangovers, except that’s a lie. Mat just wants to get drunk. That part’s not a lie.

The kitchen is packed, because this, apparently, is where Marner’s started a dance-off with some girl Mat recognizes from the field hockey team. She’s cute, he guesses, and he vaguely remembers licking salt off her stomach when he was a sophomore, when people still did body shots.

The cases of Budweiser, a little out of the way of where Marns is aggressively attempting a cartwheel. It doesn’t seem to be panning out. But Dylan’s there, cheering him on anyway, with eyes red from the joint between his thumb and forefinger.

Mat is honestly  _ astounded _ they gave Stromer an A. Strome is the kind of guy who cries when Costco’s out of red Gatorade.

“Matty,” and clearly, this fucking idiot has followed him into the kitchen, so Mat plasters on a fake smile and turns around to face a clearly faded-out-of-his-mind Connor Ingram.

“The fucking shit hell do you want,” Mat says, flat.

Ingram, to his credit, is unfazed. “You seen Hartsy?”

“Our starting goalie is asleep in my bed,” Mat says, cracking open the beer. “You can relax now, backup.”

“Yikes,” Connor says, voice just as flat. “We should talk more, Barzal, don’t you think?”

“I think you smell like canned tuna and I want you absolutely nowhere near me,” Mat snorts, and takes a long sip. “Good talk, though. Enough for the weekend, I think.”

“Make sure he gets some Gatorade,” Ingram deadpans.

Mat plasters a huge, sarcastic smile on his face, and says, “Sure thing, babe!”

Ingram sighs, dramatic as hell, and Mat grimaces. Connor, objectively, isn’t terrible. He’s an okay goalie, he showers more than most of the idiots on this team, and he’s never made Mat clean up his puke. Not once. Which — Hartsy can’t say that, Roy can’t say that, and Fabbro sure as shit can’t say that. So, yeah. Connor’s not a bad person. Not really. It’s just — he saw it happen.

Mat’s knee still hurts, sometimes. Before thunderstorms, or when it’s his fifth shift of the period and he’s absolutely gassed.

He’s not going to forget that, not anytime soon. The way the rink went quiet, after that first punch of a gasp. That gasp that came the same time Mat hit the boards, and—

Connor saw, is all. Connor was playing.

“I thought us Western guys had to stick together,” Connor says, finally, and takes a long drink.

“We do,” Mat replies. “Me and Fabbro and Josty and Hartsy and Noah hang out all the time. You’re there, sometimes.”

“You’re an asshole,” Connor says, almost surprised, like he hadn’t figured it out by now. Everybody fuckin’ knows, Ingram, get with it.

“Yeah,” Mat says, dragging it out long enough for Ingram to roll his eyes again, long enough for Ingram to mutter something like  _ dickhead _ and exit stage right.

And then Mat’s alone by the beer, which is never a good thing.

He finds his way back to his bed eventually, after something like eight shots. There’s a lot of music, and people are chanting his name, and Mathieu jumps off of the roof and on to the ratty old sofa that’s on the back lawn. He nearly misses, and it’s maybe the most epic thing Mat’s ever witnessed. And then a little bit later, Mat’s got his tongue in Bean’s mouth, platonically. But it’s Tito’s weight on him, firm and warm, that finally gets him into bed. 

“Party’s not over yet,” Mat says, while Tito’s pulling Mat’s jeans off, one leg at a time. He can hear the low thud of bass through the floorboards. It sounds like a Flume song.

“The party is definitely over,” Tito says, as done with Mat’s shit as anybody. “There are like, fifteen people still downstairs, and they all live here.”

“I should still be—“ Mat’s saying as Hartsy rolls over in his bed.

“Jesus Christ, who is that—“ Tito jumps.

“It’s just Hartsy, he got tired—“

Carter sits up, too fast. “Fuck, I’m definitely about to throw up—“

“Are you fucking serious,  _ again _ —“

“Mat, get him a trash bag—“

“Tito, I forgot how to walk—“

Connor McDavid walks in just as Carter Hart throws up all over Mat’s bed, and then Connor McDavid promptly walks back out.

“That’s good,” Carter says, sarcastic, and there’s puke everywhere, and Mat will honestly sue this whole team. Just watch. “I guess I better start Googling rivers.”

“Get the fuck out of my room,” Mat mumbles, too drunk to do much more than shove at Carter halfheartedly. It’s probably not a huge deal to sleep in his bed anyway, right? The puke’s only on Carter’s side. He can manage this in the morning, definitely. But now, now he’s so tired, it’s gotta be nearing five in the morning, and Mat’s really drunk — has Mat mentioned how drunk he is?

Carter rolls out of the bed, probably on purpose but not even nearing graceful. “I’ll pay at the laundromat,” is all he says before wobbling out of the room, up the stairs, and into the room he shares with Juulsen and Chychrun and Jost. He’s barely out the door when McDavid’s walking back in, Mitchell Stephens right behind him.

“Where’d he go?” Connor asks, only vaguely worried. Carter couldn’t have gone far.

“His room,” Tito says, nose wrinkled. “Jesus. This is so nasty.”

“I got it,” Connor says, smooth and easy, because he’s the captain, and he’s not the type to get fazed by a little vomit. Not possible, when he grew up as Strome 2’s best friend. Dylan’s a fucking lightweight, always has been, and Connor’s got too many stories about cleaning up the back of his mom’s minivan after Dylan got a little too wild in high school. “Mitchell, you wanna help me strip the sheets?”

“It’s cool, dude,” Mat says, rolling over on his front. “I’ll clean it up later.”

“That’s not — no,” Connor says, like it’s very obvious that one shouldn’t sleep in someone else’s puke.

“Seriously,” Mat says, eyes falling closed.

“Hey, man,” Mitchell’s suddenly right by Mat’s head, crouched down by the bed. “I washed my sheets this morning. You can sleep it off, no worries.”

“Don’t be a fucking hero,” Mat says, because kindness is not instinct, and it hasn’t been in a long time.

Mitchell Stephens is, always has been, kind.

“Come on, Barz,” he says, and his voice is a little rougher, and Mat likes it best like that. That’s how it gets when they’re down by one, and the clock’s running too fast, and he wants it.

Mat opens his eyes. Mitchell is really close. “Okay,” he says. It usually doesn’t take him this much persuasion to get in someone else’s bed, he promises.

And then Mitchell smiles, warm and pleased and a familiar comfort, and rises. “You need help getting there?”

“I’ll take him,” Tito says, already yanking Mat out of the bed by his leg. Belatedly, he realizes he’s wearing a button-down and boxers, and this is probably not the most alluring he’s ever looked. Whatever. He’s looked worse, probably. Definitely.

Mitchell’s only one floor up, sharing with McDavid and Duber and Raddysh. Tito’s basically hauling him up there, because Mat’s balance is sub-par at best when he’s had this much to drink. 

“Here’s a thought,” Tito says, kicking open the door. “Maybe only a few shots, next time.”

“But,” Mat says, and he’s too drunk to think of a valid argument, so he just kisses Tito’s cheek, wet and loud, as he’s being led into the room.

It’s one of the bigger rooms, big enough for their own ping-pong table right in the middle of the room. It’s covered in textbooks and empty handles of Svedka, open notebooks and stick tape, an Ovechkin jersey and one lone sock. Someone — probably Drouin, before he graduated — had made some small effort of decorating, because there’s a framed Beliveau jersey just above Duber’s bed, and a Canadian flag taped to the ceiling. Someone — probably MacKinnon, after he graduated — had spray-painted  _ FIGHTING FALCONS FOREVER  _ on the wall, messy and kind of stupid, because MacKinnon’s coaching the UWO team right now. Clearly, not Fighting Falcons Forever.

“Jesus, Barz, you look like hell,” Duber says, because Duber’s a dick who’s clearly never looked in the mirror.

“You’d know,” Tito says in French, easy, because Tito ran Quebec back in the day.

Duber looks miffed. “Whatever,” he says, flat, and falls back into his pillow, face-first.

“Nice,” Mat says, stumbling over into Mitchell’s bed. It’s the only made bed in the room, and yeah. Clean sheets sound pretty nice.

Tito’s gone for a minute, and there’s the sound of running water, and then he’s back, holding out a glass of water. Mat’s never been, like, a super sentimental person, not even before everything went to shit, but he’s always been grateful for Tito Beauvillier. “Drink up,” Tito says, and his voice is calm, warm, and Mat does as he’s told.

Once he’s done, Tito smiles, visibly exhausted, and takes the glass back. “Get some sleep. We have practice in ten hours.”

“Agh,” is all Mat can manage, and then Tito’s gone, and the only noise in the room is Duber snoring.

Mat sleeps, only for a few minutes, because then there’s Mitchell, a gentle hand in Mat’s hair. Mat inhales, sharp, and makes room in his bed, reflexive. Mitchell laughs quietly and kicks off his shoes and pants, and slots his body next to Mat’s. It’s a twin, so it’s tight, but Mitchell is warm, and Mat is still drunk, and Mat kisses him.

When Mitchell pulls back, he’s still laughing. “You’re trashed, Matty,” is all he says, and he kisses Mat, quick and singular, before continuing. “Go to bed.”

“I am in bed,” Mat says, and reaches down to Mitchell’s waist. “With you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, and his grin is small, but there’s this fond, sort of embarrassed tilt to it that’s honestly making Mat blush. “You know that.”

“No, I don’t,” Mat says, and holds a little tighter to the muscle on Mitchell’s side. “I don’t know anything. I have a 1.8 GPA.”

“You should really go to class more,” Mitchell says, and kisses Mat again, so Mat’s not really sure what side Stephens is arguing, here.

“If you want me to go to bed, you should probably stop kissing me,” Mat says, just as he leans in to kiss Mitchell some more. Mitchell’s smiling into it, and there’s a little laugh that gets lost when Mat bites at Mitchell’s bottom lip.

“You’re right,” Mitchell says, pulling back for good. “Go to bed.”

“As we have already established, I am already in—”

“Goodnight, Matty.”

 

Mat wakes up in Mitchell’s bed. Mitchell isn’t there, not even in his room, but Raddysh is. Raddysh is typing furiously, and that’s Adele blaring through his headphones, tinny and loud enough to wake Mat up. When Mat sits up, Taylor doesn’t even look at him.

When Mat sits up, his urge is to vomit is minimal. The human body is astounding.

He stands, stretches, and throws Mitchell’s sheets around until the bed looks vaguely made. The clock on Mitchell’s bedside table reads a little bit after one, which means just under two hours until practice. Which means just under six hours until gametime.

“What’s up, Raddy,” Mat calls, and his voice is so cracked it hurts.

“Don’t talk to me,” Taylor says, not looking up from his computer. “I have a paper due in eight minutes.”

“Okay, Raddy,” Mat says, chipper as ever, and heads downstairs.

Apart from a few randoms asleep on various pieces of furniture, everything looks to be in order. There’s spilled beer here, a broken folding table there — there’s a slight memory of Speersy leaping across the table in some heroic feat of beer pong — and there’s Noah and Carter cooking in the kitchen. It smells like eggs, and Mat will absolutely be eating half of whatever they make.

“Look who it is,” Noah says as Mat wobbles into the kitchen. “I thought you were dead.”

“Nah,” Mat says, opening the fridge. Miraculously, there’s one remaining blue Gatorade, and there really might be a God up there. He pretty much shotguns it in the kitchen, all in one go, while Noah looks on with thinly veiled disgust. 

“It’s a wonder people still think you’re cute,” Noah says as Mat wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Hartsy, your boyfriend is flirting with me,” Mat says, then pauses, remembering, and turns back to Noah. “Juulsen, your boyfriend puked in my bed last night.”

Noah laughs, loud and short in the way he does when Carter does something dumb, and Carter winces. He turns to face Mat, slow and careful. “Laundromat couldn’t save them. I made Kale drive me to Bed, Bath, & Beyond, though. We got you some that are kind of the same.”

“They don’t look remotely alike,” Kale says gleefully as he walks into the kitchen. “But, silver lining — they don’t have vomit on them. Which is more than what can be said for the rest of this house.”

“We went too hard last night,” and McDavid’s here now, apparently. He’s looking like he’s going on a first date, in a navy sweater with his hair combed all nice, but he’s probably just going to pick up some milk. “We can’t do that before game days again.”

“But it was so fun,” Mat pouts.

“You almost slept in a bed full of puke out of sheer laziness,” Connor says flatly, using his Captain Voice, and Mat shuts up.

“And I’d have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for you meddling kids,” Mat says under his breath, and no one hears him.

“You’re really funny,” Strome 2 says, appearing out of nowhere right next to him. He’s said it like he doesn’t mean it at all, which. Okay, rude. 

“Okay, rude,” Mat says, and Dylan barely grins. He’s gotta be exhausted — he had a lab until seven last night, and Mat is pretty sure he was still wearing his university-sanctioned goggles from Chem when he pulled out the wine bag. He doesn’t think like normal people, that Dylan Strome.

“Feeling good enough to play tonight?” Is all Dylan says in response, reaching above Mat to the cabinet with the cereal. He starts eating Froot Loops, dry and by the handful, and Mat wrinkles his nose.

“I’d still play if I wasn’t feeling good,” he says, easy. “Learned that from you, Stromer.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that,” Dylan says, like Dylan didn’t throw up after playing a shift his freshman year. “Our captain holds us to very high standards, you know.”

“Funny,” Mat says, flat. “If Connor had standards at all, he’d never be seen with you.”

(Mat loves Dylan. He promises he does.)

Dylan chews some Froot Loops, considering, before nodding finally. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Mat grins, steals a handful of cereal, and heads upstairs to shower.

  
  


They’re losing. They’re always losing. Connor’s screaming at Chabby from the bench, bitching about how someone’s  _ gotta take the lead out there, boys, be the difference,  _ and Marner’s doing his best, but his best isn’t enough, and their coach has gotta know how hungover they all are.

“Shittiest fucking team in the league,” Gauthier mumbles through his mouthguard, tightening the laces on his skates.

“Well, you’re the shittiest defenseman on the team,” Mat says in reply.

“I play right wing, dipshit,” Gauthier doesn’t even look up. “That’s forward."

“Explains a few things, then,” Mat says, and next to him, Mitchell laughs.

It’s a nice laugh. That doesn’t mean shit, really, except that Mitchell has a nice laugh. And Mitchell has a nice smile, too, and doesn’t seem at all hungover. He might’ve been sober last night, which. That’s kind of embarrassing — or it would be, if Mat ever got embarrassed anymore.

And then Marner almost scores, but it hits the crossbar and deflects, and nothing. Mat doesn’t bother looking at Connor, doesn’t bother feeling that disappointment. It’s much easier to keep your hopes low, because that way, it’s a pleasant surprise when things go well. Which, that’s not an  _ awful _ way to go through life. It’s pessimistic, maybe, but it’s hard not to be pessimistic when you’re sitting on the bench of, as Gauthier put it, the shittiest fucking team in the league.

“Smile, Barzy,” Mitchell says, voice low next to him. “Only down by three, with one whole minute left in the third.”

“You’re right,” Mat says, and doesn’t smile. “Still time for a comeback.”

“Regulation win for us today, I think,” Mitchell says, and takes his helmet off. His hair is sweaty, matted in weird places, and Mat doesn’t think, not really, just reaches out and runs a hand through the blond mess, kind of making it worse.

“Thank you,” is all Mitchell says, simple, and he squirts some Gatorade into his mouth, and all is normal. All is normal.

“Yup,” Mat says, because that probably sounds casual, right?

 

They lose. Connor’s the only one who cares.

  
  


The house is always too quiet on Monday nights, except for the one asshole — it’s Fabbro, it’s  _ always _ Fabbro — playing some shitty Oasis song on a guitar downstairs. And then Raddysh will get so stressed that he just starts talking to himself, loud and vaguely self-deprecating, and Mat’s earbuds only work in one ear, and that’s not nearly enough to drown him out.

Tito’s been FaceTiming his girl for the past forty-seven minutes, speaking in half-French and saying nasty shit in English, all about her eyes and her lips and how her hair smells like cinnamon, and Mat would Rather Not. His room gets small, sometimes, but on nights like tonight, it’s near stifling.

His bedroom back home used to feel this way. Small, tight, not enough room to stretch his arms out. It was even worse when his leg—

Maybe he’s got claustrophobia. Yeah. That’s probably all it is. Claustrophobia and a limp in his step.

And he doesn’t know why he does it, feels stupid that he does it at all, but he winds his way up to Mitchell’s room. Mitchell’s sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed, surrounded by all these papers about osteoporosis, or maybe it’s scoliosis, it’s definitely an -osis, and he doesn’t even look up when Mat sits down next to him.

“You look busy,” Mat says, easy, and picks up a notecard. He’s too bored to read it, and even before he can, Mitchell snatches it out of his hand.

“Stop,” he says, and his voice is sticky, hoarse from disuse. “Everything has a very specific order.”

“That’s the opposite of my kink,” Mat says, and fights the urge to pick up another notecard.

“Really?” Mitchell says, sounding either bored or annoyed. “Because Virtanen said you like it when boys tell you what to do. That’s a kind of order, Barzal.”

“Okay, let’s get this straight,” Mat says, very seriously. “The only time Jake Virtanen has ever fucked me was in the quarterfinals, my freshman year, when he got two penalties in the third period. And it wasn’t just me. He fucked the whole team, you included.”

“How could I forget,” Mitchell sighs, and Mat knows by now that he’s not really even that annoyed, but Mat’s a distraction, and Mitchell doesn’t do well with those.

“I’m bored,” Mat says, and inches closer to Mitchell, because yeah. He wants to.

“I can tell,” and he doesn’t have to look at Mitchell to know that he’s smiling, because he can hear it easy enough.

Mat grins, stares straight ahead, because it’s easier to be brave when you don’t have to face anybody. “Thanks for letting me sleep with you.”

“Any time, bud,” Mitchell says. “Now can you get the fuck out of my room?”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Mat says, but stands anyway. “People think you’re the nice one, did you know that? People come up to me, like, in my Spanish class—”

“There is no way you have gone to that class even once, Barzy, don’t even—”

“They’re like,  _ I don’t fuck with hockey players, but that Stephens kid, he’s the best,  _ and I just wish they knew, you might look like the poor man’s Ryan Gosling, but—”

“That’s barely a compliment—”

“But, you are not nice.”

Finally, finally, Mitchell looks up. There’s a sour little slant to his mouth, and his eyes are narrowed. “Poor man’s Gosling, eh?”

Mat frowns. “A very poor man.”

“You’re poor,” Mitchell says.

“Not  _ that  _ poor.”

Mitchell laughs at that, loud and short, the way he does when Mat says something funny enough to catch him offguard. And he wants to kiss him. He wants it, his body close to his in a twin bed, quiet so their roommates won’t hear, quiet so Mat won’t hear it himself — hear how bad he wants it, himself. 

“I’ll leave you alone now,” Mat sighs, big and dramatic, and hauls himself to his feet. “Will you miss me?”

“I always do,” Mitchell says, but he’s back to his notecards, and Mat goes before he can say anything stupid about that.

  
  


Sometimes he dreams about it. 

He’d been exhausted, that game. It had been a tournament weekend, one game after the other, and there had been scouts, too, ones from the WHL, ones who  _ wanted  _ him. He’d only been fifteen, really, and sometimes he went to those games, met with those players, and bit his tongue so hard it bled. He’d dreamed about major junior, because he let himself. He was allowed to, back then.

And then his skate hit bad ice, and he was going so fast he couldn’t steady himself, chasing after a puck that hadn’t hit his tape quite right, and hurtling, hurtling, hurtling, crashing. No one’s fault but his own. He’d hit the board wrong, first with his leg, then with his face. ACL torn, tibia fractured, cheekbone broken, lip busted, nose bloodied. He couldn’t move, and he still doesn’t know if that was by pain or by shock or by heartbreak.

He couldn’t move, and he knew it was finished.

He’d cried, too, right on the ice, in front of his teammates, and Ingram’s team, and the coaches, and the paramedics. In front of everyone in that arena, he sobbed until his ribs hurt, until he thought those might be broken, too. His breath was thin, ragged, cold against his throat, and he wanted it to go, he wanted it gone, he wanted to go two minutes back, he wanted—

After the surgeries were done, his team called. Wanted to see him, wanted to see if he would be interested in doing some bullshit job for the front office, something for social media, or meeting with potential players. They didn’t ask him when he could come back. Nobody comes back from an injury like that, not even Mat. 

 

Sometimes he dreams about it.

But now, sometimes, he dreams about Mitchell’s head in his lap.

He’s having one of those dreams when he feels a hand on his shoulder, warm and light, and it doesn’t take much to wake him up when he’s been dreaming, but—

“Come upstairs, idiot,” Mitchell’s saying, high up above him, and Mat goes.

He doesn’t dream so much about his leg when he sleeps next to Stephens, is all.

  
  


“What a kick in the dick, eh boys?” Marner’s saying, hauling himself over the boards with a great deal of trouble. He’s not so agile off the ice.

“We’ve had worse,” is all Chabby says, eyes fixed on the scoreboard. They’re only down by one, shockingly, and only halfway through the second period. Plenty of time to fuck it up.

“Get it back, get it back,” Connor’s chanting, standing over the boards and yelling at Myers for a turnover that will most definitely be on the opposing team’s highlight reel. Josty, for some reason, remembers how to backcheck, and sends it up to Stromer, who’s too slow to know what the fuck he’s doing out here, so he sends it over to Gauthier who—

Holy balls, he scores. 

Connor nearly falls off the bench, he’s cheering so loud, and Speersy kisses Bastian, right on the cheek, and Mat can actually feel himself grinning, and for the first time in a long time, it’s genuine, it’s real, and fuck, if this is only how it feels when they’re tied—

They don’t win the game, but Mat gets a messy goal, one with too many people around the net. His mom will probably call him later, remind him to be careful about his leg in those situations, but he’ll be too drunk to care.

  
  


He’s not — well, he’s definitely drunk. He’s not shitfaced, though, not this time, because he’s just been drinking beer, and liquor, liquor’s the one that gets you, Virtanen taught him that when he was only a freshman, and he’s happy he’s not drunk, because if he was too drunk, maybe Mitchell wouldn’t let him sleep in his bed.

But sleep’s a long way away. It’s barely after midnight, and the house is rowdy, and Dylan’s doing a boob luge, and Connor’s watching, ten feet back from the crowd that’s cheering him on, looking slightly queasy.

Mat can fix that.

“Oh captain, my captain,” he says, too loudly, and claps his hand on Connor’s shoulder. Connor jumps, just slightly, because apparently he was way too invested in watching Strome 2 kill his liver to notice Mat ambling over. Which, Mat won’t take that as an insult. Not yet.

“How’s it going, Barzy,” Connor says flatly, not quite a question.

“Swell, thanks,” Mat says breezily, pulling Connor in closer. “You played amazing today.”

“You played better,” Connor says, because everything is a study in deflection and self-deprecation with this kid.

“Not even a little true,” Mat beams. “You’re a fucking king here, McDavid.”

“Sure,” Connor says, because of course he does.

Mat drops his arm, frowns slightly. “Why are you sad at a party?”

Only then does Connor turn to him, a look of deep,  _ deep _ dissatisfaction on his face. “ _ I’m  _ sad?”

Mat blinks. “Yes. Connor. What? What’s happening here?”

“Have you  _ met  _ you?” Connor says, and yeah, Connor smells like alcohol, which is probably a good thing, or, it’s a very, very, very bad thing. “You’re sad all the time.”

“Not  _ all _ the time.”

“A good sixty-percent of the time.”

“That’s not all the time.”

“Yeah, because now you’re friends with Stephens, and he makes you happier.”

“Not really.”

“You sleep in his bed, Mat.”

“So? Stromer sleeps in yours.”

And Mat doesn’t know if that’s true, of course he doesn’t, but when he’s losing arguments, he tends to shoot in the dark a bit. But Connor tenses, and his face does something stupid before it settles into something hard, something cold. And Connor — Connor doesn’t look like this.

“No, he doesn’t,” he says, and his voice is very firm, but there’s a rasp to it, and Mat forces himself not to look away.

He swallows instead, hard. “Look, dude, I didn’t mean—”

“He doesn’t,” Connor says again, and there’s a shake to his voice that wasn’t there before. “Okay? He doesn’t. He doesn’t — he doesn’t want — he doesn’t want that.”

And then Mat, because Mat’s an asshole — Mat wrinkles his nose. “Why the fuck wouldn’t he want that?”

And Connor looks pained now, vaguely embarrassed, “He just doesn’t, okay? Can we not talk about this anymore?”

And Mat’s drunk, he really is, and that’s the only reason he doesn’t back off. “Is he the reason you’re sad at parties?”

Connor rolls his eyes, but it’s a farce. There’s a deep blush on him, because Connor blushes with his whole damn body, and honest to God, if Dylan doesn’t want to sleep in McDavid’s bed, Mat kinda does.

And, maybe not just because he’s drunk, “Do you like Stromer, Connor?”

And, maybe just because Connor’s drunk, Connor smiles, somewhere between exhausted and exasperated. “I’ve been in love with him since my mom made me invite him to my birthday party in grade two.”

Mat wants to laugh, kind of, because seriously,  _ Dylan.  _ No wonder Mrs. McDavid had to force Connor to invite him. But, because Mat was born with a soul, he doesn’t. He just touches Connor’s shoulder, gently this time, and smiles at him. “Stromer should be fucking  _ lucky _ to share a bed with you.”

“You’re drunk, Matty,” Connor says, but his blush is back, so Mat counts this as a win. “Get some sleep. Make sure Hartsy won’t puke in your bed again.”

“Good advice,” Mat salutes him, downs the rest of his drink, and steps back. “No wonder you’re captain.”

He hears Connor’s soft  _ fuck off _ from behind him, but, really. He’s too drunk to care.

The objective, now, is to find Mitchell, and to be carried off to bed with him like a Disney princess. And finding Mitchell is the easy part — he’s always sitting out on the porch, even though it’s Canada in January. But Mat will brave the cold, because Mitchell’s always too warm anyway, under all those covers.

  
  


Mat’s already in bed when he asks Mitchell, “Are you ever gonna kiss me again?”

And Mitchell’s shucking off his jeans when he laughs, clear and sweet, sits on his bed, and presses a kiss to Mat’s forehead, like Mat is a five-year-old with a fever.

“That’s not what I meant,” Mat says, and he’s not pouting. He’s not. He’s better than pouting. 

“No?” Mitchell’s gleaming, all self-satisfaction and confidence, and Mat has always wanted a piece of whatever he is. “You’re gonna have to show me, then.”

Even with a bum fucking leg, Mat doesn’t like backing down from a challenge.

He sits up, the sheets pooling around his hips, and he knows what he looks like — pale skin and hard muscle and he knows the face he makes when he wants it, his mouth red and open. And Mitchell’s just like everybody else, everybody else who gets weak for Mat like this, because he just—

Mitchell’s the one who leans in first, is all Mat’s saying.

And then it’s the two of them, alone in their underwear, and Mitchell’s thigh is between Mat’s legs, and Mat’s moving just slow enough to make them both hurt. And Mat’s trying not to be too loud, but Mitchell’s voice is in his ear, low and encouraging, and it’s suddenly too much, and Mat pulls off just as he comes.

Mitchell’s warm, panting slightly with Mat, and jerking himself off, slow. “You look pretty,” Mitchell says to Mat, breathy and genuine, and Mat puts his mouth on Mitchell’s dick so he doesn’t say anything stupid.

Mitchell’s the one who cleans them up, because he’s always been more responsible. Mat kind of just lies there, because now Mitchell’s bed smells like his come, and that’s a new and fun thing. He can still hear the music downstairs, and every now and then he tenses as someone comes up the stairs, even though he saw Mitchell lock the door.

Mitchell, who’s humming now, just in boxers and now with a few more hickies on his neck, tidying up the room so it doesn’t look like he just fucked Mat in here. Sensible.

“You’re a much better person than I am,” Mat says, and he’s not even drunk anymore, so there goes that excuse.

Mitchell just laughs, low and soft, and looks over to Mat. “Probably.”

Mat grins, because that was the best thing he could have said. “Fuck you.”

Mitchell laughs again, a little louder this time. “Doesn’t make you a bad person, though. I just get the vibe that you didn’t do a ton of community service in high school.”

“Homeboy, I  _ was _ the community service,” Mat says, like it’s a joke, because it kind of is, isn’t it? All the kids on his team, the ones who didn’t get picked up by major junior, treated him very, very carefully. They played video games with him, went to the mall with him, shared classes with him, but there was always a little pause, always making sure no one talked about hockey, always careful.

“Well-adjusted people don’t say that, Mathew,” Mitchell says lightly, and throws a pair of clean underwear at him. “Put some clothes on, seriously. You’re such a fucking distraction, Jesus Christ.”

“You like it,” Mat says, but shimmies into the boxers anyway. 

“I do  _ not _ like it,” Mitchell says, obviously lying, and shoots a grin at Mat anyway.

“I will not argue with you tonight, Stephens,” Mat sighs, and makes some room in the bed. “And I’m tired. And I scored tonight. So let’s go to bed.”

“You’re very demanding,” Mitchell says, but he comes anyway, turns out the light, and slots his body against Mat’s easy enough. They’re quiet for a minute, soft breathing and a kiss on the nose, and then Mat’s asleep.

  
  


Mitchell is the kind of person who goes out for ice cream. And when Mat complains about this to Tito, Tito gives him a look like  _ what kind of person doesn’t like going out for ice cream,  _ and yeah, okay, Mat likes ice cream, but he wouldn’t leave his house for it. 

Well. Not without Mitchell’s insisting.

Mitchell always gets rocky road, which is so fucking typical. Mat’s a cookie dough kind of guy, but only because he lost a taste for chocolate after inhaling a ridiculous amount of ice cream post-surgery. The taste of chocolate, now, kind of tastes like blood, which. Not quite ideal, when it’s a Wednesday night after a grueling practice and Mitchell is going to town on a waffle cone.

“Eat faster,” Mat says, sarcastic. 

“Fuck you,” Mitchell says, mouth full of almond and marshmallow. 

“This friendship is weird,” Mat says, and daintily dips his spoon into the vanilla, because he was raised correctly, unlike  _ some _ people.

“No, it’s literally not,” Stephens says, making a face. “You’re this way to everyone.”

“You’re not,” Mat counters. “Remember when you used to be nice to me?”

“No,” he says, voice flat. 

“Well, you were,” Mat says, and there’s this weird part of him that wants to hook his ankle around Mitchell’s, light and simple. He doesn’t do it. Emphatically, he doesn’t do it. “You changed your sheets for me.”

Mitchell doesn’t look at Mat when he says, “I still change my sheets for you.”

And there’s something about the way he says it — his mouth upturned, maybe, or his voice a little softer — that makes Mat tighten. It’s just — it’s too much, too clear, and he can’t, no, it’s not what he’s allowed, he’s not allowed to want it like this, not with Mitchell, because the last time he wanted something this bad, he broke.

He’ll break again. He knows he will.

And Mat — Mat looks at Mitchell, and Mitchell looks like hope, golden and shiny and lovely, and Mat  _ wants. _ He wants ice cream and dirty sheets and a kiss goodnight, wants it more than he should. And Mat’s tired, he’s so fucking tired of telling himself to love small things, the things that take up no space at all, little enough not to notice when they’re gone. And Mitchell — Mitchell doesn’t know how to be small. Mitchell is so big that sometimes Mat forgets that he doesn’t deserve him.

Mat has one bad leg and one good heart. He doesn’t want that broken, too.

“All good over there?” Mitchell says, and Mat blinks.

“All good,” and he’s always been a good liar.

They walk home in the snow, scarves wrapped around their mouths. If Mat were braver — or, really, a little more stupid — he’d pull his down to kiss Stephens on the cheek as they waited for the crossing light. 

He doesn’t.

  
  


Mat sleeps in his own bed that night.

  
  


And things kind of just — go on.

Mat sleeps more, forces himself out of bed for at least one class per day, and tries to eat better. He goes to the gym with Tito and Chychy, even though he kind of just watches them lift from his spot on the elliptical. He sees Mitchell at practice, around the house, and in a Psych class he was unaware he was enrolled in. 

Neither of them question why they stopped talking. And if Mat feels Mitchell staring at him from across the ice during practice, well. Maybe he’s hallucinating. Stranger things have happened. 

And yeah, maybe now Mat’s taking better care of himself. He’s eaten a vegetable or two. But that doesn’t mean he’s not drinking. 

“You goddamn boozehound,” Marner’s saying, watching in mild horror as Mat kills a bottle of Fireball. “What is wrong with you? Do you need to lie down?”

“Buddy,” Mat says, and if his voice is slurred, he doesn’t hear it. “It’s 2017.”

“That answers exactly zero of my questions,” Mitch says, and sips on his Molson like he’s so much fucking better than Mat.

“You’re very welcome,” Mat says, bowing so exaggeratedly that he loses his footing and falls on his ass. 

“Well,” Mitch says, unimpressed, but there’s a hand held out for Mat, and he takes it without thinking. He looks up and he grins.

“Oh, captain—”

Davo grimaces. “Yeah, your captain. Have you even seen the movie, Barzy?”

Mat frowns. “That’s from a movie?”

“Jesus Christ,” Strome’s saying, because he’s here too, apparently. “Thank God he’s cute, right?”

“Not that cute,” Connor says, just a bit hollow, and Mat’s heart breaks for him. “Getting a little sloppy tonight, kid.”

“I’m older than you,” Mat says, but he’s not sure.

“Incorrect,” Connor says brightly. “Come on, it’s time for bed.”

Mat doesn’t really have the words to argue, so he doesn’t. There’s a few words about Dylan offering to tuck him in, Connor politely volunteering, assuring Dylan he can do it himself. Mat shrugs, allows Connor lead him up the stairs, and lets Connor to gingerly set Mat on the foot Connor’s own bed.

“I’m good now,” Mat says, but he’s kind of not sure. “Go back downstairs.”

“It’s okay,” Connor says easily, sitting down next to him. “I’m not missing much.”

“Dylan, though,” Mat says, but there’s not much else that he knows how to say right now. He’s maybe a bit more fucked up than he thought, but these things can be overcome.

“Dylan will still be here tomorrow,” Connor shrugs, looks at his hands. 

“You ever gonna kiss him?” Mat asks, and touches the back of Connor’s neck, very gentle, like he doesn’t want to startle a horse or something.

Connor laughs, but the room feels no warmer. “Probably not, no.”

And then Connor looks up at Mat, and the word that comes to mind is  _ bleary, _ because his eyes are wet and his mouth is wet and Mat kisses him because he’s not sure how not to.

And Connor brings a surprised hand to Mat’s face, not quite kissing him back, not quite pushing him away. He kisses like he plays — it’s practiced, and it’s quick, and Mat quickly feels like he’s falling behind, and he’s racing to catch up, that’s his hand knotted in Connor’s hair, and then—

“Oh,” Mitchell says, backlit from the fluorescent in the hall. Haloed, by himself, watching Mat’s chest rise and fall under the hand Connor’s using to push him back.

“Mitchell—” Connor’s trying, standing, following Mitchell back into the hallway, and Mat can’t move, and his mouth still tastes like McDavid, and he feels like he’s being buried.

If he didn’t deserve Mitchell before, well.

  
  


Raddysh checks Mat hard in practice the next day. It’s not an accident. And Mat doesn’t go down, because Raddy’s good enough to make shit look a lot gentler than it is, but Mat pops an Advil or two after practice. His leg hurts like a bitch, honestly, but it’s not like Mat cares.

Mat’s a junior. There’s only a few more games left in the regular season, and a twelve-percent chance at making playoffs. His leg can hurt and his leg can not hurt, and nothing will change. He doesn’t — hockey isn’t going to be his life. It stopped being his life a long time ago, and he’s still trying to be okay with that. He knows it’s over, and he knows he still has some shit to go through, and for the longest time, that was the kind of thing that killed him — knowing how much there still was. He wanted to stop longing after something, wanted it more than he could breathe, and it hurt him, it did, enough to make him cold.

He’d been cold for a long time now.

And Mitchell —

He felt warm in Mitchell’s bed, tucked under his arm with his head on a pillow that smelled like the boy who wanted him.

He swallows, hard, and shoulders his hockey bag. The locker room is quiet, because Mat is quiet, and so is Dylan, and Hartsy’s looking at Mat like he should be saying something, and Mitchell isn’t looking at all.

Connor leaves the locker room, head low, and Dylan doesn’t follow him. Dylan’s very adamantly  _ not  _ following him. He seems to be folding his jersey now, which is the most Dylan Strome  _ nobody fucking talk to me _ that Mat’s ever seen.

Mat walks up to him, and starts talking. He’s cool — well, not cool, but more accepting — with fucking up his own life, but he doesn’t want to fuck up Dylan’s, too.

“You’re killing Connor,” he says, and he knows everyone’s trying to listen in.

“No, I’m really not,” Dylan says, flat. “Connor is a very capable person.”

“Capable people get killed all the time.”

Dylan stops, and his voice is hard, and it doesn’t match his face. “I don’t want to do this with you right now.”

Clouder coughs to cover up Bastian’s shocked low whistle, and Mat’s about to tell everyone to mind their fucking business, when Ingram stands up.

“Think it’s time for us to go home, boys,” he says, with an air of casual confidence that Mat has literally never seen on Ingram before. “Heard that the women’s soccer team is throwing a rager tonight, and my mom just deposited my allowance, so I’m buying for the pregame.”

There’s a brief cheer, Dylan and Mat already forgotten as the team files out. Mat makes a mental note to reconsider Ingram as a person, but there are bigger things to focus on at the present moment. Dylan attempts to follow, but Mat grits his teeth hard, and pulls Dylan back.

“Nothing’s going to get better if you don’t talk to him,” Mat says, because it’s true. Connor avoids confrontation like Bastian avoids drug tests. 

“You’re the expert on McDavid, then,” Dylan says, and unfolds his jersey.

“No, man, that’s you,” Mat says, as slowly and intentionally as he can, because Dylan Strome is not the brightest, let’s be honest here.

There’s a long stretch of quiet before Dylan says anything. He just folds, unfolds, folds again, until he finally opens his mouth. “His mom used to force him to hang out with me. Did you know that?”

Mat would be a dick if he said yes, so he shakes his head no.

Dylan sighs. “She did. And it’s not like — I had friends, okay? I wasn’t sitting by myself at the playground. But Connor’s special, and you can tell when a kid’s special, even when they’re little. And I wasn’t ever gonna be special. So I found someone who was.”

Mat knows Dylan’s about to cry, so it’s no shock when his voice comes out shaky. “He got drafted to Erie. Did you know that? Not that high, but still. He could have played in the O. We all wanted him there. But I — I mean, you’ve seen me play, it’s not too pretty out there. I wanted him to go, though. I knew he could be amazing. And that’s not the bullshit wanting him to go, that’s — I wanted him to go. But he made up some bullshit about college being more important, and how rare it is to make it big, and I couldn’t even be mad when he followed me here, because at least he was fucking following me, right?”

“Stromer,” Mat says, because he doesn’t know what else he can.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan says, wipes at his eye with the heel of his hand. “He can kiss whoever he wants. This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid—”

“I’m gonna marry him, though,” Dylan interrupts. “I am.”

And this is where Mat would laugh, laugh and roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. He smiles, kind of, and not like he’s about to be an asshole, either.

“Yeah?” Is all he says.

Dylan nods, sure of himself now. “I gotta pay him back somehow. This is a bad hockey team, Barzal, and he deserves something better than this.”

“You are better than this, Dylan.”

“I know that. I just — it’s him. You know? It’s Connor.”

“Tell him that, maybe,” Mat says, and realizes just exactly how much he sounds like he’s reading from a John Hughes script. “Or kiss him. Or just ambush him with a bunch of Twizzlers and a case of Molson, because Connor’s really pretty simple.”

“Red Vines, not Twizzlers, don’t be stupid.”

“You’re the expert, Stromer, not me.”

 

Dylan and Mat walk into the house together, and everyone still there sighs in relief. Connor’s sitting in the kitchen, barely visible through the cracked-open door, and Dylan doesn’t say much to anybody. He just opens the door, and shuts it behind him.

And Mat’s just standing there, looking like an idiot. 

People are mostly over it, from what he can tell. Those who aren’t at the party are playing Xbox, or finishing up an online quiz. One person is notably absent, and Mat tries not to feel disappointed, because this. This is his fault. He ghosted, which is a dumb word for a dumber thing, and he’s not allowed to feel this way.

“Chin up there, Barzy,” Jost says, from where he’s sitting with his head on Fabbro’s lap.

“‘S all gonna be okay,” Juulsen echoes, not looking up from his phone.

Mat thinks Dylan was wrong, maybe. This isn’t a bad hockey team, not really. Well, not accounting for skill — these are good people. People who want good things for the people on their team. People who’d take a black eye for you, people who’d spend their whole allowance for Mat to get five minutes alone with someone, people who’d share their bed if you couldn’t sleep on your own.

In the morning, Mat will apologize to Mitchell. He owes Stephens that much. And he can’t — he  _ won’t _ — ask for anything more, because nothing more is deserved. He doesn’t deserve a spot in his bed.

“Good practice today, boys,” Mat says, and if his voice is a little hoarse, no one calls him on it.

He drops his shit at the base of the staircase, next to everybody else’s, and heads upstairs. It’s dark in the hall, dark enough that he’s reaching to turn on his phone’s flashlight as he’s getting to his door, but.

But there’s a light on, seeping through the cracks, and he’s so stupid to hope as he’s opening up the door.

And he’s never stopped being stupid, but this time, he’s right.

“What are you doing down here?” Is what comes out, but Mat sounds fond, and that’s all that really needed to happen.

Mitchell smiles, barely. “Missed you.”

And when he says it out loud, it still sounds scary. Scary, but not impossible.

“I’m sorry,” he says, which is an understatement.

“Yeah?” Mitchell smiles, a little wider, which means  _ explain yourself. _

And Mat didn’t really have anything prepared, but he can talk. He knows how to do that. 

“You remind me of my leg sometimes,” he begins.

“Rocky start,” Mitchell says immediately.

“Fuck off,” Mat says, grinning, because Mitchell is, too. “Seriously, though. I thought I wanted you too bad.”

Mitchell’s smile gets a bit smaller, the sun behind a cloud. “I didn’t think you wanted me at all.”

And Mat almost laughs, but then he remembers where he is. So all he does is sit, down on the bed next to Mitchell, close enough to smell that he’s showered, because it’s the same smell on his sheets. “I wanted you. I still want you, even though—”

“Even though you kissed Connor,” Mitchell says, which. Valid.

Mat nods, slow. “And I’m sorry about that. I just — I was moving fast, with you. Last time I moved that fast I thought I ruined my life.”

“Stop it with that,” Mitchell says, soft. “Your life isn’t over. Hockey isn’t even over.”

Mat laughs, maybe a little bitter. “I’m getting better.”

“At what?”

“Being positive.”

“That’s — okay. Yeah. I see that.”

And Mat has to brace himself to say it, but he does. “It’s you, though. You make me a lot happier than I thought I could ever be. And I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry for the way I treated you. But you’re — you’re important. You’re important to me. And I think I love you. And you don’t have to answer that right now, or ever, if you don’t want to, but I do. I love you.”

Mitchell is quiet for a minute, but he knocks his knee against Mat’s, and that’s reassuring. “I hated you,” he finally says, which is not reassuring. “I saw you and Connor, and I don’t think — I haven’t ever been that angry before.” He pauses, thinking, breathing. “And I was hurt. And I missed you. And I didn’t  _ think  _ I was just another person to you, but you made me think that. And that sucked.”

“I know,” Mat says. “I’m — sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Mitchell nods. “I know. I knew when I saw you talking to Stromer.”

And Mat looks at him, the planes of his face, open and warm, and he sees something like hope again. “I want to do better,” Mat says, softly. “For you.”

And Mitchell thinks, just for a second, and then he nods. “Okay.”

Mat grins, careful and small, until Mitchell starts grinning back.

And Mitchell turns his head, just a little bit, and Mat is the one who leans in this time.

They try sleeping in Mat’s bed, that night. It’s too big, they decide, because they have enough space to breathe and that’s vaguely frightening right now. So they stumble to Mitchell’s room, sleep-dumb and soft, clutching at each other and kissing on the stairwell, until they finally fall into bed again.

  
  


They wake up too early, to the sound of their teammates stumbling home from the soccer party. Duber, sweetly, is trying to tiptoe around the ping-pong table and fails miserably, knocking over Raddy’s laptop, which make Raddy wake up, and suddenly everyone’s yelling, and Mitchell looks like he could kill someone, anyone, and Mat has to kiss him.

“Morning,” Mat says, because the clock on the nightstand says five, and someone is making eggs downstairs. 

“Not yet,” Mitchell says, but kisses him anyway. 

“I love you,” Mat says, because he means it, and because it’s easy like this, when they’re sleepy and warm and Mitchell feels light in his hands.

And it might be for all of those reasons that Mitchell smiles, says “I love you, too,” with a voice too raspy, but Mat — Mat’ll take that any day.

Mitchell grins, his head falling on to Mat’s shoulder as he says, “Back to bed.”

Mat grins, pulling back slightly, saying gently, “Honey, we’re already in bed—”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so so so much to everyone on twitter who was so kind and encouraging. means more than you know!
> 
> title is from "sex" by the band EDEN. 
> 
> my twitter is @jdrouins! come say hi!


End file.
